


When The Party's Over

by iamanidhwal



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anger, Angry Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Avengers Are Assholes, Booty Calls, Bottom Peter Parker/Top Wade Wilson, Bottom Wade Wilson, Botton Peter Parker, Break Up, Collateral Damage, Deadpool - Freeform, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Fights, Fingerfucking, Fist Fights, Five Stages of Grief, Gaslighting, Gay Sex, Grief/Mourning, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, Hostage Situations, Hurt, Hurt Peter, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Infiltration, Insecure Wade Wilson, Kidnapping, M/M, No Communication, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Poor Aunt May, Poor Everyone, Poor Peter Parker, Poor Wade Wilson, Protective Peter Parker, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Roughness, Sassy Peter Parker, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail, Spider-Man - Freeform, Spideypool - Freeform, Top Peter Parker, Top Wade Wilson, Toxic Relationship, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Wade Wilson Fucks Up, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Wakes & Funerals, Yeah I'm hoping to break your hearts ladies and gents, aunt may - Freeform, billie eilish - Freeform, miscommunicaton, spiderman - Freeform, when the party's over, y'all probably know what happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2019-10-19 03:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17593838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamanidhwal/pseuds/iamanidhwal
Summary: Peter Parker and Wade Wilson are in a relationship, and in no way is it healthy. In the back of their minds, they both know that what they have between them won't last; that it will end eventually. And that when it finally does, it is not going to be pretty.In Peter's case, he's had some mighty hypocritical moments during their relationship. In Wade's, the inability to be the man Peter wants him to be, and the overwhelming insecurity that follow hot on the heels of disappointing Peter and his too-high standards make him go to dark places, bringing Peter down with him more times than not. Even though the whole of New York know the both of them as the sassiest, mouthiest supers in the game, they both seem to have the inability to communicate directly to one another about the details that matter to them the most.Literally everyone knows that what they have, right now, was not something sustainable. Peter and Wade both know it as well. But they also know that they wanted each other more than anything, more than the world, more than life itself.Would it really be so bad to stay together and keep pushing for a happy ending?





	1. I'm No Good For You

**Author's Note:**

> Warning:  
> * Peter and Wade have an established relationship here.  
> * It is a toxic, unhealthy relationship. Do /NOT/ idealize anything here.  
> * Both Peter and Wade are at fault, but no one is giving way.  
> * Emotional manipulation and hurt (usually in the form of verbal abuse) are in all of these works.  
> * 'Mature' rating for most of these chapters because of language and content of dialogue.  
> * 1 chapter is rated 'Explicit', therefore the whole fic is rated as such.  
> * All content warnings will be tagged accordingly as best as I can. If I miss something, don't hesitate to comment and I will add it to the tags immediately.  
> * That being said, READER'S DISCRETION IS ADVISED.  
> \---  
> { x } - White Box
> 
> [ x ] - Yellow Box  
> \---  
> Deadpool slips back into an old, but not the least bit forgotten, lifestyle. He's tried, oh so hard, to be straight, for Peter's sake. 
> 
> When he fails, Peter is quick to jump onto the "blame Wade Wilson for every bad thing that happens" train, as if forgetting those sayings about pots and kettles, and stones and glass houses.

* * *

_** Don't you know I'm no good for you ** _

 

Let it be on the record that Peter Parker had vast patience.

He had the patience to make sure that each and every street and alley in New York was accounted for in every night patrol. He had the patience to pursue criminals who'd try to shake him by running more than ten blocks. He had the patience to endure every snide comment Eddie Brock gave his way, the daily sermon from Jameson at the Bugle. He had the patience to entertain fellow supers and fellow civilians, especially when he's in the middle of a fight.

But this time, a certain mercenary was wearing it thin. Scratch that, he was wearing it  _to the ground._

Wade Wilson was... he was... 

Peter looked up at the man in front of him, arms crossed. He had just finished one of his nightly patrols early, but when he saw that Wade wasn't home, he started fearing for the worst. He didn’t even bother getting out of his suit and merely waited in the living room until he arrived, his cellphone faced screen-up on the table.

He didn't know what he was expecting, honestly - a call, a text message, an Avengers summons, a live report of any emergency nearby. He didn't even know where he expected the call to action to come from. Peter just sat there in the darkness of the living room, elbows on his knees and hands clasped,  _waiting_ for Wade until he arrived.

And after a couple of hours, he did. Wade stood within the doorframe, his form backlit with the light from the hallway, spilling into the darkness of their shared apartment. Peter expected him to fidget, being caught red-handed like this, sneaking in in the middle of the night, bloodied and bruised, weapons out at the ready. He expected an awkward, throaty chuckle, a deflection from the truth, _anything,_ really, that was akin or at least close to the feeling of guilt that Peter could use to absolve him of any mistakes.

What he  _didn't_ expect was for Wade to be on the defensive, mimicking Peter's crossed arms and looking him straight in the eyes.

"What the hell are you doing up so late?" Wade asked, obviously annoyed he had an audience for his sorry return.

That sentence alone caught Peter entirely by surprise, and a short bark of humorless laughter escaped his lips. Shock and indignation fired some synapses in his brain, finally connecting him to the one word that summarized Wade so perfectly.

_Complicated._

"Do you even know what time it is?" Peter snapped, flipping on the light and not bothering to hide the annoyance and disgust on his face as Wade kicked off his boots, crusted with blood. He let the katanas fall with a loud clang, no doubt to  drown out what he usually called Peter's 'nagging'. 

" _Yikes,"_ Wade scoffed, not even giving him so much as a glance while he slumped down the couch and started to rotate his wrists to test his newly-regenerated joints. "Is this what it is? Are you  _really_ going Helen Parr-slash-Elastigirl on me? You're the one who's  _always_ on patrol every night, but  _God forbid_ Deadpool go out into the streets past ten!"

"That's not what this is about!" His anger was bubbling over from where he stored it deep within, making his blood boil. "What the hell were you doing out so late?"

Wade grumbled, frown lines on his mask making his upset look more comical. If Peter hadn’t seen it for almost every day, he would’ve laughed. "Didn't know we lived in 19-fucking-84.”

" _Wade."_

"I was _busy,_ and it’s _none of your business._ ”

“Really?” Peter challenged, rounding on him and taking up his katanas. “Because I’d like to fucking make it my fucking business.”

Wade groaned, a hand on his forehead in exaggerated resignation. “Oh, great _, here we fucking go_.”

“I think you went on a job.”

“Aren’t you glad I’m not lazing around?” Wade said sarcastically.

“A _merc_ job,” Peter hissed, flinging the katanas at him. He wasn’t sure whether he aimed to hit or not, but when one of the blades slashed into the already-beaten up leather couch they had bought, he felt disappointed it didn’t slash skin and draw blood instead. “You were out to kill somebody.”

“Alright, fine! I was!” Wade countered, standing up to his full height, unconsciously trying to dominate Peter in this argument. “And not just somebody, but _somebodies._ It was a whole fucking council of idiot monkeys. And do you want to know what they would do if I hadn’t taken them down one-by-one? Sold out the fucking government to off-shore terrorists.”

“So?” came Peter’s harsh reply. “So what? You think you did good?”

“Uh, correct me if I’m wrong, Baby-Boy, but I did _fucking great.”_ He took off his loops of ammunition from his shoulders and threw it against the glass coffee table, shattering it to pieces. “I just saved the whole fucking country.”

“You _killed_ people –“

“- who, had they lived, would instigate _more_ deaths, both inside and outside this fucking country. _”_ Wade interjected, stepping forward. Peter didn’t step back like he expected, merely bared his teeth at him. “Get it through that big head of yours: in this world, there are necessary evils that needed to be taken care of.”

"What, and you're just what this world needs? A mercenary who gets rung up on the phone every time the world scales need a fucking tipping?"

"Oh my  _God,"_ Wade groaned loudly, and Peter could tell his eyes were rolling so hard under the mask. "What did you expect me to do, lie around and do nothing? What good will that do? Do you know what could happen? Do you know how hard the retcon would be at Marvel? We'd probably have our Doomsday Clock at 1 minute to midnight, and we don't have a fucking Ozymandias or a Doc Manhattan to fix it.  _Point is,_ the world is less shittier. Why? Because I fucking pulled the fucking trigger."

“ _That’s not how this fucking works!”_ Peter yelled, surging up to him and pointing a finger at his chest. “ _You fucking know that’s not how it fucking works!”_

“What?” Wade laughed harshly, arms outstretched as if summoning a challenge. “What do you suggest you do?  _Bring them in?_ When the fucking government is compromised,  _a la SHIELD?_ You think that this is the best solution just because of your obsession with due process?"

“I thought you’d be better than this,” Peter growled, pointedly ignoring the bait that Wade had cast so low.

The mercenary in front of him sneered. “No. You think that you could _make_ me better than this. News flash, Baby-Boy –- you can’t change someone’s nature.”

The shorter man's upper lip curled at that, glaring up at the other. "Guess you can't. Sorry if I ever assumed otherwise."

"Don't be a patronizing dick," Wade huffed, having none of it. "See, this is the problem with you. Any fucking problem you find, you wanna just  _thwip, thwip_ around and fix it right away. Well look at me!" He threw his hands up in the air. "I'm a walking, talking fucking  _tumor,_ baby. Merriam-Websters sponsored a fucking photoshoot for their dictionary because I am just the textbook definition of 'problematic'."

Wade glared at Peter's shell-shocked face, then added in a low voice, "Sometimes I think you just put up with me just to see how you actually fix me. Wind me up, watch me go. Isn't that what you do?"

 

_** I’ve learned to lose you, can't afford to ** _

 

In a flash, Peter’s hand came out of nowhere. Wade’s head nearly spun with the force of the slap, the sound of skin against his mask echoing across the living room. He was certain that, had he unmasked earlier like he wanted, his cheek would’ve stung more. That didn’t mean the blow wasn’t too dull to take effect.

 _“How_ _dare_ _you.”_ Peter snarled, voice deep. Wade could see his shoulders shaking in anger, hands clenching into fists by his sides. “How _dare_ you accuse me of such a thing. You don’t know how badly I wanted you to –“

“To what?” Wade pressed stepping closer until he was almost nose-to-nose with him. He couldn’t help the words that he was spitting out, and although he knew that they were sharp enough to hurt, he didn't have a good excuse to dial it back. “To turn good? To behave? Did you think I'd be a good little doggie on a fucking leash?"

“ _Ten months, Wade!”_ Peter yelled in his face, so loud that his ears started to ring. “Ten _fucking_ months of a no-killing spree! I thought you were going to last!”

 _“Did you?”_ He asked in a mocking voice, disbelieving. Wade knew how to play this blaming game all-too-well, and he leaned down, his hand disappearing into one of the pockets of his utility belt.

Wade saw a flash of hesitation and fear flit across Peter's face. He stepped back, arms stretched out, frightful on what weapon he could be pulling out. “Let’s not get hasty – “ he started to say, but when Wade’s hand came out in a fist, he sighed softly and slightly relaxed, his shoulders slumping. “I thought you were getting a grenade.”

“Oh, honey, you wish. This is much more explosive than that,” The mercenary grumbled and opened his hand to reveal a tiny little metallic circle in the middle of his palm. It blinked red every few seconds, as though in tune of how arrhythmic Wade’s heartbeat was right now. 

He looked up to see Pete visibly pale at the very sight of it. Wade’s stomach, in turn, lurched in a myriad of emotions – disgust, anger, shock, and worst of all, betrayal. He didn’t want to believe it, _couldn’t_ believe it, and had come up with excuses on how the tracker got into his belongings. But at this point in time, with Wade's wordless accusation and Peter's silent admission, there was only one logical explanation.

Peter’s quivering lip was as strong as Wade’s conviction that his boyfriend of two years hadn’t just bugged each and every suit he owned.

{What a dick.}

[What a _DICK.]_

{Here comes Mister I’m-Right-All-The-Time, blah blah blah –}

[Chirping on and on about morally high grounds - ]

{How much he _believed_ in us – }

[And yet here he was, fucking _bugging_ us like a damn puppy who he just _knows_ will run off.]

{The fucking _nerve_ of this little twip!} 

“So am I correct in assuming that you're acquainted with this little fella in my hand?" he said, voice low, no louder than a grumble. It made Peter flinch, and knew all too well that Wade was dead-serious and was definitely not in the mood for some smart-assing. "Care to explain how I found one of these in every suit I own, Mister Parker?”"

“That… I’ve never seen that in my life,” came the weak response from the shorter man.

“ _Bullshit.”_ In his anger, Wade threw the tracking device against the wall. It cracked and emitted a small ‘squeak’ before it died on the floor, a puff of smoke rising from it. “You were tracking me.”

“Wade, I – “

"No more fucking excuses." He waved off any pathetic excuse that Peter was trying to come up with to salvage his dignity and actions. He had dug his grave himself, and by Jove, Deadpool had been in the business of filling graves for as long as he could remember. “You couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t you? Couldn’t trust me enough that I was sticking to my word, that I was lying low and not answering the damn murder phone.”

{‘Murder phone’, lol, nice.}

Peter flushed, stomping his foot down. “I told you, I don’t – “

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Parker, _cut the crap.”_ He scoffed. “It has ‘Stark Industries’ etched into the back.”

Peter swore under his breath. Wade could only hear so much, with a few choice ‘motherfucker’s and ‘Tony’s. “That’s… I didn’t plant it on you.”

He shook his head, disbelieving. “Who the fuck cares if you did it?"

“No, it makes a world of difference. Tony did it. The Avengers did it.” Peter flinched, crossing his arms across his chest defensively. “I-I just –“

“Just what?” He raised an eyebrow. He took off his mask at long last, glaring at him. He wanted to force Peter to meet him in the eye and say it straight to his face. When he couldn’t, it just made him grow even angrier. “Look me in the eye, Parker, and tell me you didn’t have a fucking hand in this.”

The silence that followed was deafening. But the immovable figure of Peter Parker, thoroughly chastised, was even more damning to Wade.

He threw his arms up in resignation, turning away from him. It was Wade's turn to find that he could hardly look at the other man. “ _Unbelievable.”_

 

_** Tore my shirt to stop you bleedin' ** _

 

“Fine,” Peter finally spat. His arms had finally dropped to his sides, but after several minutes of silence, his anger came back, defenses building up as quickly as they had been shut down. His hands balled into fists, he continued, “I knew what they were doing. But I didn’t tell you because… because…”

“Because what, exactly?” Wade threw his head back in a harsh laugh, but it was devoid of any humor. “Tell me. Go on, then, t _ell me_. What convincing story is the little spider going to spin today?”

“I didn't tell you because I believed them.” Finally, Peter could meet him in the eyes, spine straight and voice steely. He could see the pang of hurt that flashed in Wade’s face for a nanosecond. “They told me that men like you – “

“Men like me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? ”

“ – that men like you don’t like changes.” Peter finished. “And because you gave me reason to believe that accusation.”

“So you’re saying this is my fault?!”

“ _Everything_ is your fault, Wade!” Peter shot back, hands flying to his hair and pulling at it in frustration. “Every _fu_ _cking_ thing - from being a mercenary, from being trigger-happy, from having an absolutely fucked-up moral compass – “

Wade furrowed his brows in confusion, then mumbled, “You just described who I am as a person.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably your fault, too.” Peter snapped, and he felt a cold sliver of vindication as Wade physically flinched at what he had said. He quickly recovered, however, and stepped forward. Peter’s spider-sense tingled and he barely dodged Wade’s punch aimed at his face, jumping up to the ceiling and sticking to it.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” Wade snarled, all hints and traces of amusement and sarcasm blown to and gone with the wind. His eyes screamed murder and Peter could tell he was itching to reach for his guns. “You don’t get to spit that in my face. You think you’ve never done anything wrong?”

“That’s not what I – “

“You’ve done some pretty fucked up shit too, Parker.” Wade finally reached for his gun, then twirled it around his fingers. Peter knew he was playing it cool, and didn’t lower his defenses one bit. Deadpool was a world-class mercenary with lightning-fast reflexes. He's had to depend on his Spider-sense for as long as he could remember, but he wasn't about to test its limits against a volatile killing machine. “Oh, but am I too _morally_ fucked-up to call you out, now? Owe up to it! Or does your hero status shield you from ever doing anything questionable?”

“Oh yeah, sure!” Peter sneered, fiddling with his webshooters to check if he had enough webfluid for a physical fight. Wade saw him reaching down and aimed the gun at him. “As if every-fucking-time you relapse into your merc business and go out on a killing spree, I don’t get called up to the Avengers Tower to explain myself?”

“What?”

“They know we’re together, Wade.” Peter huffed indignantly. “They know that we’re in a relationship. They’ve always known.”

Wade glared at him through squinted eyes, finger on the trigger tightening ever so slightly. “Why do you make it sound like that’s a bad thing?”

And, as if on cue, it was followed by a soft “Oh.”

Realization hit Wade like a ton of bricks, and it slackened his muscles, anger draining from his face to be replaced with dejected resignation. His aim at Peter faltered, then the hand holding the gun fell to its side. “You’re embarrassed of me.”

Peter flushed, more in embarrassment, but didn’t say anything. He could feel Wade was expecting him to say ‘no’, that his assumptions were wrong, to give assurances. He didn’t do any of those, and as more seconds passed, the mercenary’s shoulders slumped even lower.

“Is that it? You feel like you’re too good for me?” Wade’s voice barely carried over a whisper, but the pain was definitely there. A small part inside of Peter wanted to reach out instinctively to the other man, to murmur reassurances in his ear and forget this ever happened.

His common sense stomped that sympathy like a bug, and Peter’s jaw tightened as his resolve strengthened. “It’s more than that – “

“Are you repulsed? Disgusted? Horrified? Burdened because your little Merc of a boyfriend was too much to babysit?” Wade interrupted, turning his head to the ceiling. “ I can’t believe this. I can't _believe_ this!  _Two fucking years_ of being together and you tell me now, of all times, that you felt like you’re too good for me."

"Wade - "

"Is that it? You couldn’t handle fucking a murderer? You couldn’t handle being even remotely associated to a mercenary?” Wade started rambling, waving the hand that was holding his gun wildly. "Did you think your hero reputation would be tarnished? Is that what this is all about? Your fucking _reputation_?"

“For _once_ in your _fucking life,_ can you listen?!” Peter shouted, shutting up Wade completely. He dropped down from the ceiling and straightened his back, chin jutted out without him meaning to, as he tried to word out his reasons as best as possible. He knew it would hurt, and he had half the mind to hurt Wade. “ _Everytime_ you go out, _everytime_ you get another kill, they check in on me.”

“Wh – “

“I had to _defend_ you,” Peter snapped.

 

_**But nothing ever stop you leavin' ** _

 

Wade rounded on him; he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “ _Excuse me?”_

“I had to defend you,” Peter hissed through clenched teeth, looking like he was going to cry in embarrassment just remembering about it. “Every time you'd answer the phone, every time you go out on official merc business, they call me. They summon me to the Tower, Wade." He angrily brushed a few stray tears that fell from the corner of his eyes. They weren't tears of sadness, but of frustration. "I had to defend you. I had to defend everything. All your fucking murders to the Avengers, because they were always THIS – “ Peter held up his hand, two fingers with a micro-inch of space in between them – “THIS close to taking you down.”

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head disbelievingly at Peter's theatrics. "I highly doubt they could."

Peter snorted, finally able to staunch the flow of tears. "Do you think of me as an idiot that I'd risk it just to see if they could?" 

Wade took it in, letting the information wash over him like a tidal wave. He could imagine Peter being summoned to the Avengers Tower right at the end of a patrol, having the idols they both looked up to demanding him, scrutinizing him for the actions of his lover that he had no idea had even happened. His mind went back to times where he would come home after washing his suit in a 24-hour laundromat a few blocks away, and when he'd snuggle up against Peter in bed, he'd be pointedly turned away, sniffling with swollen eyes.

He had always told Wade it was a bad case of nightmares. _"It's the same, always the same,"_ Peter had said, finally turning to face him. Wade would always feel his heart lurch painfully to see his beloved's face, brown hair tousled after restless stirring, brown eyes blown wide and red-rimmed, face wan. " _It's always you in a pool of blood._ "

" _That's pretty sexy, to be honest. Is it me dead in a pool of blood or is it me causing it?"_  Wade would quip in that smart-ass deflective way of his, and Pete would hit his chest lightly. Wade would wound his arms, slithering around his waist and pulling the man closer to him so he could bury his face on his neck. " _Okay, enough of that, shh..._ "

" _Tell me it's not real,_ " he would ask, so softly with his voice muffled against Wade's shirt and skin. " _Tell me you wouldn't..._ "

And Wade would always bite his tongue and stroke Peter's hair, lulling him to almost sleep, before lying to his face,  _"_ _Cross my heart, and hope to die, Pete. My hands are clean._ "

He looked up at Peter of the present, now full-on red-faced. His next words were soft, barely past a whisper, but the way he said it - with pain, and betrayal, and so much sadness - rendered him breathless with pain all the same.

" _How could you lie to me_ _?"_

Wade turned away from him, shoulders slumped and insides feeling numb. He felt all fight and anger drain from him in a second, leaving him empty as he replied, "...it was easy."

[Oh, no.]

{You done fucked up, Wade.}

[You done fucked _up._ ]

There was a lengthy silence between them. Wade has his back to him the entire time, letting the boxes do their absolute worst in his mind. He didn't hear Peter shuffling into motion until what seemed like hours, but he didn't know what he went to do. He could hear sniffling, mumbling, repressed crying; every little sob was like an ice pick being driven into his heart, but he couldn't undo the damages that he had done, much like Peter who was guilty of the same thing. It was only when he heard a dull thud that made Wade chance a look over his shoulder. 

Peter looked even worse, his face blotted and eyes swollen from continuous and open crying. He barely got out of his damned spandex suit; Wade could see the high neck peeking from behind a scarf loosely tied around his neck, an oversized sweater, and some sweatpants. The  _thud_ that he heard was a duffel bag, situated by Peter's feet, and he had his bagpack slung across his shoulder.

He pursed his lips, trying his best not to put into words the ache that had hit his chest like a train. "What's all this?"

"I'm going away for a few days," Peter whispered, voice raspy from emotion. 

_** Quiet when I'm coming home, ** _

_** I'm on my own ** _

When Wade didn't answer, Peter cleared his throat and continued. "I think we need space." 

"Really."

"Don't you?" The smaller man looked up at the hardened mercenary, the last note in his sentence sounding hopeful.  _Far_ too hopeful. "Because I know, deep down in my gut, Wade, that we need the space. A little bit of fresh air to cool down before we could talk and act rationally. But... I also know that if you'd ask me to stay, t-that if you'd tell me we should keep trying to argue it out, I'm one-hundred percent sure we're just going to end up abandoning discussions and just fucking each other's brains out."

He could see Wade's mouth curl up in an amused smirk at the mental image. "I'd chalk that up as a victory in my book. We deserve a happy ending, don't we?"

"Do we really?" Peter whispered, rubbing his arm and looking away. He smiled a little to himself, small and crooked and spent. "No, I don't think so. Not tonight, anyway. I can't... I can't see this ever ending, Wade."

Wade stepped closer, for the first time in the evening not at all hostile. "Can't see  _what_ ever ending?"

" _This._ " The other man laughed slowly, motioning between them. "The fights, the hurt, the insult, the punches pulled, the guns aimed, the snarky and snide remarks. The betrayal, the backstabbing..."

He slowly looked up at Wade, eyes swimming in tears once again. "I'm getting tired, Wade. I'm so, so tired. I'm so tired of everything."

"What, you think I'm not?" Wade snapped, jumping on the defensive once again. "You think I'm not tired of your high-and-mighty ass breathing down my neck all the time?"

"Please," was the only thing that came out of Peter's lips, and it gave Wade pause. It felt so broken and soft and  _wrong_ for Peter to have a voice like that, for him to fucking  _plead_ like that. "Please, let's just stop... "

**_ I could lie, say I like it like that, _ **

**_ Like it like that _ **

 Wade met his gaze, and although his own eyes were dry, he couldn't resist the flood of emotions flowing through him.

"All I need..." Peter continued, slinging the duffel bag strap on his other shoulder and shuffling his feet. His lower lip was trembling and he bit it for a little while, worrying it to stop himself from crying. "All I need is a week."

"A week from me?" The mercenary whispered, feeling broken and numb at the thought.

"A week from us," Peter corrected, shuffling into his sneakers and walking to the door. "A week from this place. A week from everything... Please."

Wade crossed his arms, looking away. He hated seeing Peter like this, and he wasn't about to look at him until he was certain it won't lead to his heart ruling over his head. "You're a grown man, Parker; you can make your own decisions."

That made Peter visibly flinch, but all he did was nodded curtly and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the door knob, as if waiting for Wade to call him back and apologize, or to throw a fit. Do anything, really, just to stop him from leaving. When Wade did nothing, Peter merely sighed, then forced himself to turn the knob and carry his body through the threshold, before closing the door with a soft but no less resolute  _click._

He stood in the empty hallway but couldn't bring himself to lift his feet, or even move away from the door. He slumped against the door with all his weight, all the adrenaline and anger and fight in him finally gone in an instant. All that replaced it was a sense of emptiness, confusion, and dread. He hadn't even noticed that he had fully slumped down to the floor, knees to his chest and his bags on either side of him. He buried his face on his hands, not knowing what he expected to hear, and with his voice barely above a whisper, asked, "How did we end up like this?"

And, as if Wade was seated on the floor with his back on the other side of the door, there came a soft murmur of reply: "I don't know."

_** I could lie, say I like it like that,**_

_** Like it like that ** _

 


	2. Don't You Know Too Much Already?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guilt has a funny way to manipulate people into making very bad decisions.
> 
> In Peter's case, it's being haunted by the sheer number of deaths that Wade has overseen with his own hands. He thinks he's failed society when he didn't stop Deadpool from the mercenary business for good, which makes him volunteer as a sacrificial lamb in a ditch attempt of the Avengers to set things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 has Peter fucking up.
> 
> Chapter 2 has Peter trying to fix those mistakes the only way he knew how - making dodgy-ass decisions while emotions run high.  
> -
> 
> As you can see, chapter 1 literally has the lyrics of the song inside the fic, acting like a switch between Peter's and Wade's POV. This fic, along with the other two parts, will be fuller, plot-wise and not just heavy on dialogue, and therefore the lyrics will be dropped. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

As promised, they didn’t see each other in a week.

Peter didn’t know how much it affected him, being away from Wade. He knew, deep down, that they needed the space. Needed a break from each other. But he didn’t anticipate just how much Wade had wormed himself into his daily schedule, to the point that an absence of the mercenary’s presence was noted with a jarring slap to reality, at the very least. From making two cups of coffee in the morning out of muscle memory, to checking himself to not go into the nearby Taco Bell for a burrito run; hell, Peter had even checked his phone every 5 minutes, and getting annoyed at the lack of notifications that met him. Wade had managed to have Peter wrapped around his pinky finger.

But no, Peter acquiesced that that was only a half-truth, inasmuch as Peter hoping that the lack of his presence also affected Wade as much as it had him in turn. It was a petty, childish thing to wish for, he knew, but he didn’t like pining. He _never_ pined, and would always think that Wade was the one who was in-character to keep chasing after him. Wade had done so, back when they were just Spider-Man and Deadpool, roaming around the streets of New York, the former on patrol while the latter tried to come on to him loud enough for the whole city to know.

That was two years ago. And now, while on a break, Peter didn’t know what to do with himself with Wade gone.

“But I suppose this is for the best,” He mumbled, lying down on his bed in a sparse bedroom. He looked up to check on his surroundings.

After the fight, he didn’t know where to go. He couldn’t bother Aunt May, for fear he’d be coddled, or worse, have Aunt May invite Wade at home and let them sort it out. She had taken to Wade almost immediately after he had introduced them to each other. Peter didn’t want her to worry, nor to feel sad and disappointed that their relationship wasn’t going as well as she had pictured it in her mind.

Peter had gone directly to the Avengers Tower, not knowing where else to go. JARVIS had ushered him in, and when Tony and Steve got a good look at him, they had sent him to a guest room without another word. Peter was thankful that they didn’t think it necessary to ask questions or say meaningless things, although he thought Tony would piece it together when he found that one (or maybe all) of his trackers not functioning anymore.

He avoided the Avengers like the plague, which was a miracle in itself as anyone could be anywhere. He’d make sure he slept through lunch, forcing the attendants to leave food in front of his door. He’d be out patrolling before dinnertime, and not come back until past 3 in the morning, at which point he’d help himself to a late dinner and an early breakfast before passing out in exhaustion.

But he knew he couldn’t avoid them forever, and when JARVIS informed him that Tony would like to speak with him about something, he knew that his time of self-imposed exile was over. Still, he had made sure to bide his time cleaning up his appearance, shaving the stubble that he had grown (out of spite, because he knew Wade liked him better clean-shaven), and getting dressed. When he couldn’t think of anything else to distract himself with, he resigned to his fate before padding up to Tony’s workroom.

Upon entry, Peter noted who was there. Steve was reading the paper, Natasha was drinking coffee with her foot up on a coffee table, Clint sitting beside her fiddling with his arrows, Bruce and Tony hunkered over a laptop mumbling to themselves, and Thor to one side, looking out the window, lost in thought.

Peter cleared his throat, and everyone looked up and gave him a greeting with different levels of enthusiasm. He just smiled weakly in return and went to Tony’s side.

“How’re you holding up?” Tony asked. Peter thought it better to reply, half the reason was because he didn’t know how to answer that question himself, and the other half was because he knew Stark really didn’t care at all. And as if on cue, Tony just rambled on. “We need you to confirm something. Now, I know you and Deadpool are lovers, but – “

“Did he kill a group of people recently?” Natasha interjected, looking over the rim of her mug while she drank the last drops of her coffee.

Peter was caught a bit off-guard when the realization hit him that everyone in the room had been briefed on what they wanted to talk about. This wasn’t just about Spider-Man and Deadpool anymore, but this was official Avengers business. He quickly shut down his emotional state of mind. They had business to take care of.

“Yes,” he said quickly, face set, as hard as stone. He was too concentrated on Natasha to see Steve looking at him in dismay and sending a fleeting glare to Tony over his shoulder. “He didn’t tell me any specifics, but he said that he killed a certain council.” He crossed his arms, a bit petulantly, then added, “Well, that’s all I know. I haven’t talked to him since.”

“You haven’t?” Natasha pressed, placing her mug down and righting her seating position. Peter shook his head. “When was that?”

“About a week ago,” he replied, a bit worried when a flash of alarm crossed her and Clint’s face. “Why, what’s going on?”

“So that confirms my suspicion,” Tony mumbled, then pressed a button.

A hologram of a silver-haired man talking angrily into a podium suddenly appeared over their heads. It was muted, but by what Peter was seeing, it was of national importance, and was being spoken in another language that he couldn’t quite make out.

There was a sinking feeling in his gut as he watched, in horror, a blurry, black-and-white photo of the crime scene. The bodies had been removed, but the dark splatters were unmistakable. The round room was almost entirely covered in blood and bodily matter.

This was Wade’s world. This was Wade’s doing. The hands that would caress Peter and hug him protectively every time they slept, the hands that would sweep against his skin when they made love. They were the very same hands that had no problem pulling the trigger and killing a group of people mercilessly, to the point that it was going to take weeks to properly identify the bodies.

Suddenly, Wade’s words came back, echoing in his mind like a distant memory.

“ _Do you want to know what they would do if I hadn’t taken them done one-by-one? Sold out the fucking government to off-shore terrorists.”_

The implications of such a thing happening was devastating, and Peter repressed a shiver just thinking about how close the country came to ruin. But he couldn’t bring it in himself to forgive Wade, especially not now, seeing for himself the full extent of the damage he had done.

Peter turned away, and his eyes landed on Bruce, who looked at him like he didn’t know what to do. “What does this have to do with Wade?”

“Well,” Bruce replied, pushing his glasses up his nose. “We need to know if Deadpool really _did_ kill these people.”

“Wade said he killed them because they were selling out the country to foreign terrorists,” he hissed, foot tapping on the floor impatiently.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “And you believe him?”

“Of course I fucking believe him,” he snapped, suddenly defensive. Defending Wade had come as second nature, and it immediately reared its head at the very notion that his boyfriend was nothing more than a trigger-happy maniac on the loose. Before he could even think, Peter was on his feet, rounding at the Avengers, who were stock still. “Wade has been doing his damnedest to not kill. He wouldn't accept this job if he didn’t knew the importance of it." 

Tony looked like he was about to retort, but Steve held his hand up. Immediately, everyone shut up, and Peter’s eyes locked with his. Belatedly, he realized that Steve had blue eyes, although a bit darker than Wade’s icy blues. It physically hurt him when he remembered looking into Wade’s eyes, and he pointedly looked away.

“It doesn’t matter if Wade did it out of necessity or out of leisure,” Steve said, his voice never going above his speaking tone, but it was no less stern. “The point is, Wade did this. And now we’re at the brink of a war with the other country because of a breach in international affairs.”

“How would that even work?” Peter snapped.

“Wade was contracted by a third party.” Natasha interjected, crossing her legs. “For now, it’s still unknown which party particularly, but..."

"We suspect that they wanted them dead, not because of a more noble cause," Tony deadpanned, eyes trained on the paused video in the hologram suspended in mid-air.

Peter felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over his head, drenching him from head to toe in a matter of seconds, as the Avengers' suspicions finally sank in. "A set-up."

Natasha nodded, her foot tapping to a rhythm of its own. "If this  _was_ a set-up, then they would naturally hire the best of the best. That's Deadpool."

"Arguably," Tony scoffed.

"Most definitely," Natasha countered, glaring at the billionaire, who shrugged off her response. "Deadpool is one of, if not  _the,_ top mercenaries acting globally. Sure, his recent home base is New York, but he's never fully stayed around for more than two years straight in just one location. Which means he's basically in the wind."

Clint continued, tapping one of his arrowheads absent-mindedly. "Meaning, if the other government tries to pin it on America for 'seemingly' sanctioning a kill order through Deadpool, the government can outright refuse."

"The question of whether or not they actually gave the order is irrelevant," Steve added, looking more worried than before. He exhaled a little, holding onto the armrests of the chair he was sitting on. "The tensions are high and I would be surprised if war would not be on the discussion table at this point."

Peter finally sank on the couch, burying his head in his hands. " _God..."_ What had Wade gotten them into? Scratch that, what had gotten in him? What had run into his head and planted the seed of thought that he would be the one to weed out necessary evils in the world without so much as an inkling of thought to the possible consequences each pulled trigger, each bullet shot could cause? And this wasn't even related to  _familial_ reasons, but this was affecting almost everyone in the entire world. It was one thing to stop people from selling state secrets, and it was another to butcher them into nameless, unrecognizable corpses to the point that the very unstable bridge of diplomacy would collapse in on itself and spontaneously self-combust.

The Avengers were quiet for the most part, and Peter was silently thankful that they were giving him enough time to process what Wade had done. But as the minutes passed by, he finally realized that they were actually waiting for him to be done internalizing all the information they had just unceremoniously dumped on him before the next steps could be taken. When he finally raised his head, Steve was looking at him, worry and concern emphasizing the worry lines on his forehead. 

"Spider-Man," he started, and immediately he knew that they were back to talking business. He shared a look with Tony, who nodded as he refilled an empty glass on the bar. "We need your help. We've devised a plan, but... it's shaky."

"Scratch shaky," Tony scoffed, masterfully pouring two fingers of whiskey into the glass. "More like 'of national importance'. Or should we say, 'international'. Peter, this plan won't work without you."

He looked at everyone's faces, assessing the danger level. Steve looked conflicted, his usual bulky mass hunkered over in uncertainty over his armchair. Bruce looked uncomfortable, and he tried to hide his facial expressions as he ducked his head down to type what Peter thought to be gibberish into the laptop. Natasha and Clint were both leaning forward, faces grim and jaw set. Tony couldn't look Peter in the eye, choosing instead to down the whiskey in one go, baring his teeth in a slight hiss as the burn slowly went down with the alcohol. Thor hadn't said anything during the whole conversation, only turning around and leaning against the window, but by the look on his face, he wasn't one hundred percent sold into the idea of the plan that they have concocted so far. 

Did Peter even have a choice? Normally, he wouldn't think so. But these were the Avengers he was talking to - the very same group of people who would shun him during any incidence smaller than alien invasions in New York, but come begging by the time they acquiesce that they need more than the current number of hands on deck. Part of Peter felt petty, and it voiced out ugly, yet logical, reasons on why he  _shouldn't_ accept and help them on whatever suicide mission they were planning. But that part of himself was a sarcastic little asshole, sounding eerily like Wade, and all thoughts focused on the man that Peter's heart yearned for, positively  _ached_ for. 

The mental image of Wade strutting into the circular conference room, guns out, and cocked, his usual smiling face grim with determination on finishing a job that Wade could finish out of muscle memory  _alone._ Katanas flying, blood spurting, body matter spraying everywhere in different chunks. Peter couldn't help but see the imaginary Deadpool executing the final living member of that room, whistling as he went out and asking himself aloud where to buy chimichangas. The words " _I've failed him"_ keep ringing in Peter's ears, and no matter how hard he clapped his hands over him, it was still there, a constant reminder inside his head, buried deeply like a trojan virus.

The guilt weighed down on his moral compass like stone, overriding all sense and logic. 

"I'll do whatever it takes," Peter finally replied, hands falling on his lap, surprisingly steady. "I need to correct this. I... I need to. I'll balance out what Wade has done."

Steve and Tony shared a long look, until finally the former sighed and gave a relenting nod. Tony schooled his face into 'business mode' in three seconds, then handed Peter a folder. "Your mission brief," he said, his features softening slightly. "You still have an out, kid. Are you sure about this?"

"I'm not backing down from this, Mr. Stark," he said, stepping forward to all but yank the folder from his outstretched hand. 

* * *

 

When the Avengers said it was dangerous, they weren't sugar-coating it. Peter's hands were shaking when he finally read through the mission brief, and he felt sick to the stomach because there were literally so many holes and situations that started with 'if'. Almost half of the whole plan depended on chance - it fully depended on how much or how little they knew about Deadpool, how much Peter would be able to keep up the charade, and how soon the Avengers can extract them. 

It was dangerous, all right. But for Peter, it was downright suicidal. He ran the numbers with Bruce, and there was a dismal air in the whole building at the abysmal rate of passing along the specific scenarios that would make their mission a success.

Yet here he was, cuffed and collared in a specialized suit that Tony had made for him, jostling himself against Steve in his Captain America costume and Natasha in her iconic black catsuit. They were both speaking in hushed tones, going over the plan again and again. Peter had done this many times, and he so wanted reassurance from the other members of his team, but the constant stops for the last hour meant checkpoints, and checkpoints meant he was in the perimeter. Peter had to shut up or risk the whole mission to spontaneously combust even before it even started. 

The back of the armored truck they were on opened a few seconds after they stopped. Natasha's hand was on his shoulder, and she offered a quick squeeze before roughly shoving him outside the van and barking harshly at him when he fell to his knees. "Get up, scum."

He made a pathetic attempt to stand, but couldn't, his legs folded below him between his body and the ground. There was another, bigger hand on his shoulder that roughly pulled him up, and he knew that it was Steve now who was directing the show as planned. He pushed him along, making him walk in front to the people in black that were waiting for them, in front of a squat, gray, clinical-looking building.

"Come on,  _el Capitan,_ " Peter said in his best mocking voice, loud enough for everyone to hear. He could feel the  "Why the long face, eh? What's the  _rush?"_

"Zip it," Steve hissed and pulled him back. There was a whoosh overhead, and he knew that Tony was there, flying in on his Iron-Man suit. Bruce and Clint followed suit, appearing from behind the armored truck in a few recognizable thumps that shook the earth. The plan needed an image of the Avengers cohesive - something so American and powerful.

The faces of the other people were taut, looking for every imperceptible twinge that would suggest that they were being set-up. Seeing none, a thin man with a sickly palor and an even sickeningly sweet smile plastered on his face stepped up. 

"The Avengers," he said in a patronizing tone, accent thick in his voice and making the disconnect between his smile and the underlying danger he so obviously possessed. "How nice of you to drop by. My name is Matthias, pleasure to meet you."

He extended his hand in greeting. Steve didn't want to take it, but felt that he needed to, and he kept the handshake brief. "We have who you want," he said, voice never wavering.

"We thank you for that," Matthias nearly purred, and Peter almost vomited right then and there. Something was setting off his Spider-senses, but instead of one singular, strong flare, it was a constant strong wave of warnings, emanating from this one man standing still in front of him.

His hand grabbed at Peter's arm, but Steve didn't let go of him just yet. "We're waiting for that order," he said sternly. "Disable the warheads."

"I assure you, Mister Rogers, the order has been sent." 

Steve looked up at Tony hovering in mid-air, head cocked to the side as though listening to something invisible. After a while, the man nodded, and Steve relaxed a fraction.

"Then it is settled?" Matthias asked, hands splayed into the air as though welcoming.

Steve opened his mouth to reply, but Tony butt in immediately, his iron mask receding to show his bare face to avoid his voice muffling. "I have a question. What are those helicopters overhead doing?"

Peter saw an opening. "Helicopters? Where?" He jumped up and down excitedly - a monumental feat, with Steve Rogers' bulk weighing him down. " _Oooh,_ are there cameras?"

" _Are_ there cameras?" Tony repeated, glaring at them pointedly. 

Matthias held his hands up in a placating gesture. "My apologies, but the President of my country had wanted a live feedback to the people about this gesture."

As though on cue, the helicopters came into view, their whirring blades growing louder the closer they approached. Peter grinned under his suit, but feeling a sickening feeling in his stomach knowing that their plan was being broadcasted to the world. Steve and Tony shared a concerned look, but there was nothing they could do. 

Peter did the only thing he  _could_ do - which was to play his part, and act as though there wasn't a wrench in their already shaky plan.

"Hiya over there!" He yelled to be heard over the helicopters, and he knew the cameras were zooming in on his masked face. Peter would know that the iconic red-and-black would be recognized all over the world. "Get a good look at my face! The one, the only -  _Deadpool!"_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still confused:
> 
> tl;dr Peter was 'surrendered' by the Avengers to the foreign government as a stand-in for "Deadpool", banking on an almost impossible chance that they wouldn't know who Deadpool was, or how different their physiques or voices would be.
> 
> They essentially got fucked over with the international live broadcast of the 'surrender' (which was done in formal hand-off style as a symbolic gesture of burying the shovel and bringing the one person to justice), but Peter saw that Matthias and his lackeys still didn't find anything wrong. 
> 
> Their best bet right now was to go over the first phase of the plan, and so Peter did what he had to do and continue to keep acting like Wade. The Avengers would only need to modify their timeline of the second phase, which would be the extraction phase (which will happen in the next chapter). 
> 
> Til then, darlings! Leave a comment and give some love <3


	3. I'll Only Hurt You If You Let Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade and the boxes finally acknowledge the fact that they may have been looking at Peter with rose-tinted glasses for a long time. 
> 
> Still, they try to deny it.
> 
> But all logic flies out of the window when they collectively realize just how much shit Peter is in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a very long chapter, but right now it sits on the cusp of 3,000 words and that's only around 1/3 of what I had in mind. The first chapters have been around 3-4k words each, and I don't really want to throw off the weight and bulk of this fic by cramming 9-10,000 words into one single chapter.
> 
> So I just divided it into three. This being the first third.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> As always, the boxes are:
> 
> { x } = White  
> [ x ] = Yellow
> 
> Side note (1): Mentions of Carmelita and Ellie Camacho. Ellie is Wade's biological daughter with Carmelita. In the comic canon, they were kidnapped and brought to North Korea. Wade found Carmelita dead and Ellie missing (but alive). 
> 
> Here I made them both perish in North Korea as collateral damage for Wade's less-than-nurturing lifestyle wreaking havoc on everything else in his life. I also made Wade run out of his family as a father. Yes, I know it seems a tad OOC given that Wade is great with kids, but he did it to try and protect Carmelita and Ellie form the consequences of his life as a mercenary. (That really doesn't play out as they end up dead in a ditch on a foreign land, but hey, angst, right?)
> 
> Emotional thoughts abound.

* * *

Wade Wilson had barely moved a muscle in the past seven days. Granted, he hadn't actually  _tried_ to get out apart from when it was daylight. He had plopped himself in front of their worn leather couch, full of small scrapes and creases when they had fallen sick, or asleep, or had furiously made love on every single surface in the damn apartment. Wade was used to placing one leg up on the couch, arm around Peter's waist as the smaller man cuddled and nuzzled, occasionally nipping into Wade's scarred skin on his neck. But right now, as he was doing the exact same thing while watching reruns of  _Golden Girls,_ all he had between his legs was a bowl of cold, unsalted popcorn with a half-eaten burrito plopped sadly on top of it. A box of pizza he had ordered a few nights before was also on the couch, on the space beside him. He couldn't really remember what day it had come in, but yet Wade could not give an ounce of a fuck.

He had thrown his phone across the room on the third night since Peter left, and had let all calls go to voicemail. Everytime he'd walk past it to go to the bathroom, his insides would be torn and he'd mentally toss and turn. Would Peter have changed his mind? Did he want to meet up? Is he finally caving in? Will this whole ordeal finally be over?

But some small, tiny part of him, mainly egged on by the boxes, told him not to peek or answer any of the calls that he received.

[He clearly doesn't want us.]

{If he wants us, he can get his little sexy Spider-y ass back home and talk to us!}

[But what if he doesn't?]

"Then he can fuck off to God knows where, for all I care," Wade spat venomously at the empty living room, waving around a discarded pizza slice that had grown cold. He sniffed the toppings, and seeing as it was still good, promptly stuffed his face with it. He couldn't even bother ordering some warm food; Peter always made sure there was something warm for both of them, either going to do a food run to the nearest Mexican restaurant or go on an app on his phone that let them both have hot food delivered to their flat within the next hour.

But right now, every time he would be in the kitchen, he could only imagine the many nights that they had tried cooking together. How Peter would laugh and scrunch his nose in concentration as Wade taught him how to cook. Peter had been economically challenged for a long time, and would mostly just rely on pre-packed or canned stuff, ramen noodles, or take-out if he was away from Aunt May's (how he could maintain his figure with a diet like that, Wade had no idea). When they finally moved in together, the only dish Peter could make for them that didn't include pre-cooked ingredients all had to do with the many uses of an egg. Wade had taught him gradually to cook pastas, and then rice, then on to meats and greens.

They had made it a point that each of them would cook at least one meal for the both of them for the week, and so the kitchen was like a vortex of memories, both good times and bad.  Now, with Peter off to fuck-knows-where, he couldn't even bring himself to eat in the room. Wade couldn't even walk in and drink from the carton of milk he had opened without being reminded of how Peter would berate him for opening a second carton, or of how he'd be sitting on the counter while Wade made some Mexican hot chocolate, swinging his legs like a cute little idiot. He shook his head to get the image out of his mind's eye, but not before the boxes caught wind of it.

[Okay, but  _I_  care about Pete.]

{Me too!}

"No! No, we're not doing this. Either we get over him together, or we don't."

[2-0, boxes.]

{I can't believe I'm finally siding with you.}

[Guess that's that. We're never getting over Pete, it's decided.]

He growled and put the bowl of popcorn down forcefully on the plastic chair he had cut the back from to make a crude coffee table after the glass one broke. Life must monumentally suck if the voices in your head disagree on ninety percent of everything that you say or want to believe in. "For fuck's sake."

[Peter's been taking his sweet-ass time.]

{Is he  _really_ ignoring us on purpose?}

"He's done this before," Wade grumbled, rolling his eyes as he remembered. They had a small argument a few months back, but it blew up to gigantic proportions. Wade had said something inappropriate that got them both kicked out at a restaurant they were dining in for their anniversary. Instead of the wild night fucking that he had especially hoped for, Peter had all but thrown a gym bag over his shoulder and  _thwip_ 'ed off to Aunt May's to spend the weekend. Bless Aunt May for actually calling him over and forcing them both down on the couch to talk it out like adults. Peter had apologized for the outburst, fuelled by stress and late nights, and Wade had apologized in turn for ruining the moment. 

After that, Wade had realized that Peter did that often; some sort of  _escapism_ whenever he'd be overwhelmed by a situation he was currently facing. Information overload while he did his revisions? He'd close his books for two days and convince Wade to go upstate and rent a cabin in the woods a la  _love shack._ An embarrassing failure to a B-rated supervillain? Peter would shut up for 3 days and hole himself up in their shared workroom, huddled over his workbench on his side of the room, hands working furiously to tinker and upgrade the hell out of his suit, tools and webshooters. And everytime he'd fight with Wade? He'd usually walk out or, in worse cases, get his bag and swing off to God knows where. It was usually to Aunt May's, but after a sermon from her after one particular fight, he had gone to more obscure places. Wade had a panic attack every time trying to assure his safety while the man evaded him like the plague.

This time, however, felt like it was something else. He didn't like how much damage it cost the apartment, for one, and how  _final_ everything they said to each other sounded from both sides. And the longer he waited, the longer Wade got antsy. Wade was used to doing months of recon work on a target, especially if the client was low-balling him. Out of the two of them, he was the one who understood better the stakes of keeping a low profile and waiting it all out for the target to give out the exact kind of intel report his boss needed. He knew how to get them down on their knees, kiss his feet and pay more money than they initially offered to kill off a target. 

But right now? Right now, he had too much nervous energy that he kept bouncing around the apartment, never being able to sit still for more than an hour. He kept turning over books and magazines and broken furniture; kept flitting over the channels on the TV; kept wondering whether to pick up his phone or not; kept opening and closing the fridge door; kept pacing, kept wondering, kept hoping and kept denying.

God, he didn't  _like_ getting antsy.

{Petey-pie's got us wrapped us round his dainty little finger.}

"Fuck that." Wade huffed in denial, throwing his burrito out the window and feeling partially satisfied as a disgusted yelp rang out from the sidewalk below. "I'm  _not._ "

[Yeah, you are. Why do you think we'd keep going after him every damn time?]

{Remember when we'd memorize his weeknight patrol routes just to talk to him?}

"I do that with  _all_ my targets!"

[Nobody paid you to follow him.]

{And you even memorized where and when he'd stop for a bathroom break. Like, come on, really?}

Wade acquiesced with a half-hearted grumble, remembering how he'd been so lovestruck that he had written his phone number in each and every stall in the public bathrooms Peter frequented. The number of lewd calls he got was enough to push him to sexual abstinence for a week. "Alright, fine, point taken. But that doesn't mean I'm happy about it."

And he wasn't, not at all. Wade had lived most of his life as Deadpool without any openings for weaknesses; all of his life's lowest points had been exploited by fate in a twisted sense of cruelty. First it was his cancer -- in a blind leap of faith, he fell deep into an abyss that he could only crawl out of within an inch of his life, a second chance at living traded off with much of his sanity, his mortality, and his physical appearance.

Second was Ellie -- darling little baby girl with chubby cheeks that Wade had wanted to kiss and pinch and smush in his hands every second of every day. Wade thought he was being clever, running out on being the father figure he knew he craved deep down, telling himself he was satisfied by watching Ellie grow up right before his very eyes while he financially supported and watched them from afar. He had drilled into his brain that she would be safe that way: knowing she had nothing but an invisible dad she could hate, rather than a visible one that wasn't what she deserved. Taken away with her mother as hostages, Wade had done everything, come hell or high water, just for them to be safe, only to be too little too late and finding their lifeless corpses curled up together in a ditch on foreign land. When he saw them, he felt whatever sanity was clinging onto ultimately snap. He hadn't been right since.

Third was Peter. And he didn't like categorizing Peter as a weakness, because he was anything but. He thought he finally found a loophole in a crazy cruel thread spun by the Three Old Crones in the sky: Peter couldn't be violently ripped away from him because Peter was Spider-Man. He was strong, and fast, vulnerable but able to get back up everytime he was beaten down. His healing factor was nowhere near his but it was a significant improvement from normal humans. Best of all, Peter was a vigilante; he memorized the ins and outs of the industry Wade knew like the back of his hand. They found each other, built each other up, and stayed happy for the better of two years.

Or at least, that's what he wanted to think.

{Do you ever think Peter knows you're his weakness, and abuses it constantly?}

The thought had been niggling at the back of his mind for majority of the week without Peter, but even that couldn't dull the pain that shot through him when the Boxes voiced it out. "No, no... Petey wouldn't..."

[Won't he?]

{Doesn't he always like to be seen as right?}

[Doesn't he like telling you you're always wrong?]

{Doesn't he usually run away when things get out of hand?}

[And who's the one stupid enough to come running after him every single time?]

Wade was silent, mulling over their words. The boxes weren't lying, and Wade would be subsequently lying to himself if he said that he hadn't realized this by now. Peter had an ego problem, that was for sure; he didn't like being in the wrong, and always justified all of his decisions no matter how harmful or suspicious it came out to be. Wade racked his brains for memories of the night they argued, and one sentence Peter had said rang out clearly in his head. 

" _Everything is your fault, Wade!"_

The way he had yelled it at him, eyes wild and boring holes into him, his hands pulling out tufts of brown hair in frustration. Wade had to admit, he had felt something akin to a kick in the gut when he heard that. How many times did Wade melt into a pathetic self-pitying pile of scarred goop on the floor, and Peter had to whisper and coax his insecurities out while he slowly put back together Wade's broken pieces? He thought that Peter would have seen  _through_ his actions, his mistakes, his insecurities and shortcomings -- that he'd see Wade for the person he  _could_ be, and not the person he  _was_ when he was too broken to even function properly, let alone by himself. 

And yet, here he was -- throwing all those insecurities back in his face.

Wade chewed on the inside of his cheek in thought. What if they were right? Peter's IQ was sky-high, and his capacity to outwit his enemies in the middle of a fight - either to divert them to a place less crowded, or to step into one of his traps - was to be noted. What was stopping him from doing it to his partner if it meant Deadpool could be kept in like on Spider-Man's terms? 

And as if on cue, an image of a black spider spinning a perfect web sprung in his mind, innocently waiting for a fly to meet its fate.  _Game, set, match._ A perfect analogy.

"Fuck it," he mumbled, and picked up the remote to change from the  _Golden Girls_ rerun he was watching to something else, something that he needed to be distracted to. He flitted through different channels, finally settling on one that had a mind-numbing infomercial about a Rhombus-shaped Roomba they, intelligently, named the "Rhoomba".

[Now that's just shitty writing.]

{Design-wise, it looks good, though; it could get into corners.}

Suddenly, an emergency news report interrupted the infomercial, and Wade immediately put his feet down, intent on focusing on what had happened. It had already been second nature for him to check his phone and the television for any sign of an incursion with baddies, so that he and Petey could be the first responders on the scene or at least help those who were. He had been doing this for too long, he mused, as he felt around for the small .45 caliber gun he had duct-taped to the bottom of the sofa --  _just in case._ It always reassured him if he had some semblance of control.

"Wait, why do I even care about being goodie-good-good anyway?" he told himself as he realized what he was doing, and he glared at the screen as the woman started droning on about the issue at hand.

{I told you, Peteypie has us wrapped around his -}

[Coc-]

{ _Finger,_ but yeah, that too.}

"--Deadpool," the woman said loudly. 

Wade blinked in surprise, ripping the gun violently from under the sofa and cocking it at the TV, hand slightly shaking in a mixed state of confusion and shock. "What the... fuckity fuck fuck," Wade mumbled, nearly breathless.

[A-Are we in an episode of  _Black Mirror?_ ]

But that wasn't what it was. Wade put the gun down as he finally realized what was going on in the report, and why the reporter had said his name. "--has been surrendered by the Avengers in a formal hand-off style. This is in line with the controversial issue of their  _entire_  Council of Defense and Strategy being assassinated in one of the most gruesome acts of international hostility in the 21st century. Deadpool, a mercenary, has an infamous reputation both locally and internationally, with confirmed kills and targets in different countries, an estimated aggregate number seeming well into the hundreds, possibly thousands..."

"Yeah, yeah, exposition, common information, you get it," Wade grumbled, crossing his arms and frowning. "Something is very wrong."

[You mean, aside from apparently being handed over to some villainous government in the middle of butt-fuck-nowhere but we're sitting here, unbothered, for the past week?]

Wade rolled his eyes in frustration. “Yes, Captain Obvious, aside from that. Any other bright ideas?”

{I’ve got one – who’d they cast? Because it certainly isn’t Ryan Reynolds.}

[Cast for what?]

“Cast as me,” he whispered to himself as the news channel replayed a video feed. There was someone being held up by Black Widow and Captain America, surrounded by all the other Avengers in their most classic and recognizable garb. It was hilarious, and definitely the kind of image they’d put on a movie poster… but there was an outsider.

Someone who had his telltale red-and-black suit, but without the katanas, the holsters, and the utility belt. Someone who had a slighter build, more slender feet, stronger thighs. Someone who looked like he was fast on his feet.

Wade’s suspicions were confirmed when the masked man on TV was recorded for screaming into the camera: “The one, the only – _DEAPDOOL!”_

Without thinking, his hand shot out and, in a flash, he emptied a round of bullets into the television set. The screen had frozen, almost taunting him, as the image of the faux Deadpool stayed on.

“No, no, no.” It came out almost as a whine, because Wade couldn’t bring in air into his lungs. He felt _something_ push against his stomach, absolutely gutting him, because he knew that voice. He  _knew,_ without a shred of doubt, that it was Peter, _his Peter,_ under that suit, wearing his mask, donning his besmirched identity. “No, no, _Pete,_ what in the _shit biscuits_ are you doing?!”

He could feel himself spiraling into an anxiety attack. What was that psychology metaphor – about a glass filled to the brim with water, and just one droplet more had the whole glass overflowing? That was exactly what he was feeling now; all the shit that had gone through his mind, all the times he died and came back in a span of week because of pangs of loneliness and regret, all the times he nearly picked up his phone and set aside his pride just to beg Peter to come back into their phone – they all stacked up, keeping him up all day and all night.

Add his absolute heartmate being in a highly dangerous situation, impersonating _him_ , of all the people in the world, into the mix, and he felt like he would go even more insane any minute. _“FUCK!”_ He cried out, throwing his gun to the ground and barely caring about how it clattered noisily on the floor.

“FUCK!” He shouted again, ripping off the television from where it was hinged to the wall and throwing it to the ground.

“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” He screamed, again and again, as he stomped on the device that dare showed him his Peter had gone and done something so monumentally _stupid_ and that would have probably endangered his life.

{Calm down –}

“LIKE HELL AM I GONNA DO THAT!” Wade was at his wits end. He didn’t want to think about what was potentially going on in that hellhole. Thinking of his time under that shitty government super-program made his skin crawl and non-stop shivers go up and down his spine. He had survived, sure, but minus sanity and physical attractiveness, and a plus on immortality and healing factor. Peter didn’t have any of that. His mind flashed back to his weeks of endless torture, and seeing Peter strapped in the same bed as he was, screaming his lungs out and fighting against restraints to break free, made him want to maim and kill every last person on Earth.

“That settles it,” he growled, standing up, his food that had been cold for a while long-forgotten. “I’m gonna need the big boys.”

[And girls. Don’t forget your Harley gun.]

“Oh, I’m not forgetting it.” He grinned as he picked up the gun in question --  a showy, decorated piece of a revolver with a red and black motif that had ‘Night, Night!’ engraved on the grip. “Chiappa Rhino 60DS. Cute little thing.” He pushed it into the waistband of his boxers. “I’ll be saving you for a special someone -- that head honcho son of a bitch. Every nasty prison’s got one. They probably have a whiny-ass name too. Like Mark. Or Vince. Or _Todd._ ”

{Fuck Todd.}

[Yeah, fuck that guy.]

“Sorry for all the Todds that read this then.” Wade smirked as he put a pink duffel bag down and started loading it with guns, magazines, and grenades. White, ever the logical one, was already making a mental note and taking inventory of everything he put his hands on. Yellow, on the other hand, was already humming the Rango theme song.

"Business as usual," he hummed, grinning. "Now shoo, I'm getting ready for a party. We're about to have some good, old-fashioned _fun_."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give some kudos and leave a comment if y'all agree that Todd can go fuck himself lmao


End file.
